Bill Plaschke predicted doom for the Dodgers in 2001. . . . Plaschke criticized. . . . Plaschke forgot. . . . Plaschke compared unfairly. . . . The Dodgers need encouragement, not negativity. . . .
That was part of a 1,200-word screed e-mailed to me last December, a holiday package filled with colorful rips. It was not much different from other nasty letters I receive, with two exceptions.
This note contained more details than the usual "You're an idiot." It included on-base percentages and catchers' defensive statistics. It was written by someone who knew the Dodgers as well as I thought I did.
And this note was signed. The writer's name was Sarah Morris. She typed it at the bottom.
Most people hide behind tough words out of embarrassment or fear, but Sarah Morris was different. She had not only challenged me to a fight, but had done so with no strings or shadows.
I thought it was cute. I wrote her back. I told her I was impressed and ready for battle.
Little did I know that this would be the start of a most unusual relationship, which eight months later is being recounted from a most unusual place. I am writing this from the floor,
Sarah Morris having knocked me flat with a punch I never saw coming.
May I ask you a question? For two years I have been running my own Web site about the Dodgers. I write game reports and editorials. How did you become a baseball editorialist? That is my deam.
This was Sarah's second e-mail, and it figured. Every time I smile at someone, they ask me for a job.
Her own Web site? That also figured. Everybody has a Web site. The Dodgers guess there are more than two dozen Web sites devoted to kissing the almighty blue.
So my expert wasn't really an expert, but rather a computer nerd looking for work. I didn't need any more pen pals with agendas.
But about that last line. I chewed my lower lip about it. The part about "my deam."
Maybe Sarah Morris was just a lousy typist. But maybe she was truly searching for something, yet was only one letter from finding it. Aren't all of us sometimes like that?
It was worth one more response. I wrote back, asking her to explain.
I am 30 years old. . . . Because I have a physical handicap, it took me five years to complete my AA degree at Pasadena City College. . . . During the season I average 55 hours a week writing five to seven game reports, one or two editorials, researching and listening and/or watching the games.
Physical handicap. I paused again. I was in no mood to discuss a physical handicap, whatever it was.
I have had these discussions before, discussions often becoming long, teary stories about overcoming obstacles.
Courageous people make me jealous. They make me cry. But at some point, they have also made me numb.
Then I read the part about her working 55 hours a week. Goodness. This woman didn't only follow the Dodgers, she covered them like a newspaper reporter.
But for whom? Sarah called her Web site "Dodger Place." I searched for it, and found nothing. I checked all the Dodger search links, and found nothing.
Then I reread her e-mail and discovered an address buried at the bottom: http://members.tripod.com/spunkydodgers.
I clicked there. It wasn't fancy, rather like a chalkboard, with block letters and big type.
There was a section of "News from a Fan." Another section of "Views by a Fan." But she covered the team with the seriousness of a writer.
The stories, while basic, were complete. Sarah's knowledge was evident.
But still, I wondered, how could anybody find it? Is anybody reading?
Nobody ever signs my guestbook.
Does anybody correspond?
I get one letter a month.
I read the Web site closer and realized that she does indeed receive about one letter a month--always from the same person.
So here was a physically handicapped woman, covering the Dodgers as extensively as any reporter in the country, yet writing for an obscure Web site with an impossible address, with a readership of about two.
That "deam" was missing a lot more than an r, I thought.
The days passed, winter moved toward spring, and I had more questions.
Sarah Morris always had answers.
I started my own Web site in hopes of finding a job, but I have had no luck yet. I have gone to the Commission of Rehabilitation seeking help, but they say I'm too handicapped to be employed. I disagree.
So what if my maximum typing speed is eight words per minute because I use a head pointer to type? My brain works fine. I have dedication to my work. That is what makes people successful.
I don't know how to look for a job.
A head pointer? I remember seeing one of those on a late-night commercial for a hospital for paralyzed people.
It looked frightening. But her stories didn't look frightening. They looked, well, normal.
Now I find out she wrote them with her head?
I asked her how long it took her to compose one of her usual 1,200-word filings.
While pondering that the average person can bang out a 1,200-word e-mail in about 30 minutes, I did something I've never before done with an Internet stranger.